


Romancing The Bone

by maximum_overboner



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Biting, Fluffy, Humorous, Other, PWP, Reader is of ambigous gender, Romance, Rough Sex, papyrus tries so hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 11:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6114475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximum_overboner/pseuds/maximum_overboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Papyrus goes all out in an attempt to romance you but, of course, it does not go quite to plan. But that is not necessarily a bad thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Romancing The Bone

**Author's Note:**

> Another request on tumblr, another smutfic. The request was for romance, lovey dovey, all that good stuff, then it slowly gets rougher as Papyrus loses control. Hope you like it!

  You had one foot in the door, groceries in hand, when you heard a telltale trill from upstairs, high and breathy.

  “OH, HUMAN! CAN YOU COME HERE? UNLESS THAT’S YOU, SANS, IN WHICH CASE PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO NOT COME UPSTAIRS.”

  “It’s me,” you shouted back, dumping the bag of shopping gracelessly onto the counter in the kitchen before walking back out into the living room. There were flower petals laid out in a line, from the center of the plush carpet, to the stairs, in haphazard loops that spiraled in on themselves before finally evening out to his open door. Oh God. He was peeping a leg out from the frame saucily.

  “ _EXCELLENT_.”

  You trotted up the stairs, already touched by the effort he was going to, and you heard him scramble back to his bed before the telltale creak of springs rang through the air, one solid heft as he threw himself onto it. You entered his room and were hit by a wave of warmth, Papyrus splayed on the bed like a model in his dressing gown, all lovely, awkward angles. If you had any kind of doubt as to what his intentions were, then they were well and truly put to bed.

  The sex would be, as always, a very sweet affair, the culmination of years of romantic daydreaming on his part and a desire to indulge him on yours. There were rose petals strewn about (which you had kindly asked him to stop as they would slip under the bed and reek as they rotted, but here they were.), candles lit and soft music playing in the background. At least, when you walked in. He appeared to have put his playlist on shuffle, the soft tones dying out and the ambience shattered as you heard the thudding drumbeats of what you were pretty sure was a metal song. Folk metal? One of those. He leapt off of his bed, grumbling, too-small bathrobe not really covering anything, shuffling over to the computer. You noticed unlit sticks on incense on the polished wood of his bedside table, which you assumed he purchased because he knew they were a cliché of some sort, but did not actually know what to do with them.

  “Oh my god.”

  “HOLD ON, HOLD ON, THIS ISN’T WHAT I WANTED.”

  “I am absolutely fine with the idea of being ploughed to metal music.”

  “NOBODY IS GETTING ‘PLOUGHED’. PEOPLE ARE NOT ‘PLOUGHED’ ON BEDS OF ROSES. THEY ARE LAVISHED! LAVISHED!” He fumbled with the mouse, and the music stopping altogether before he finally shut the computer down, giving up on the idea, silence filling the room. “I LIKE THAT KIND OF MUSIC,” he explained. “THEY SCREAM, BUT I CAN’T MAKE OUT WHAT THEY’RE SAYING. I TOO, SCREAM. I RELATE TO IT, IT SPEAKS TO ME. SCREAMS TO ME, EVEN.”

  You wanted to laugh, but did not want to bruise his already wounded ego, and so choked it back. “Have you been reading those terrible romance novels again?”

  “MAYBE. AND THEY AREN’T TERRIBLE. THEY’RE GREAT.”

  You surveyed the scene, eyes soft. Your eyes moved from the his race-car bed, sheets crisp at the edges but bunched up in the middle from his posing (with a towel neatly tucked underneath in preparation, very clever), to his hobby table with swathes of action figures, of heroes and villains and side characters that he always seemed to like more, to Papyrus himself, who was tugging awkwardly on his bathrobe to hide his shame. It was completely unnecessary, but he always did like a big reveal. “There’s nothing wrong with that,” you soothed. “I read them as well. Ironically.”

  He turned around, craning his long frame, eyebrows quirked. “WHY WOULD I READ THEM ‘IRONICALLY’? MAYBE I WANT TO SEE IF THE COUNTESS FINDS TRUE LOVE WITH THE WHALER.”

  “They do.”

  “SPOILERS! ALSO, WHAT IS A WHALER?”

  “They hunt big mammals. The job is kind of over-whale-ming.”

  “WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME.”

  You took a step forward, bracing yourself for the speech that he would inevitably indulge in, holding your hands behind your back, watching as he tuned away fully from his computer. He walked towards you until he was only inches away, towering and resolute, his lean figure dwarfing yours, and cupped your face in his hands, warm and alive. You expected him to blurt out a comment, as he always did when he was even the slightest bit nervous, but to your surprise he leaned down and planted a chaste ‘kiss’ on your lips, waiting for you to reciprocate, which you did, tongues gently poking at each other in exploration. He swooped his hand behind the small of your back and dipped you, like in the movies, although he had forgotten to compensate for the height difference and had almost let you clatter against the floor, your fingers hooked into his ribs in a last-ditch effort for support.

  “SORRY. I WILL TAKE CARE NOT TO DUNK YOUR SKULL AGAINST THE FLOOR LIKE SOME KIND OF SEXY BASKETBALL. PROMISE!”

  You laughed, relieved, your entire body weight being held by one of his arms effortlessly. “... Thanks, Papyrus.”

  “OH, YOU DON’T NEED TO THANK ME! MAKING SURE YOU DON’T DIE OF A CONCUSSION IN THE MIDDLE OF WOOING BARELY CONSTITUTES ROMANCE. IT’S MORE OF A BARE MINIMUM, ACTUALLY!”

  You responded by nuzzling into him, into his warm, firm bones, inhaling his scent, clean soap and conditioner (which he would apply anyway, even if he had nothing to condition). It was nice, if a little odd, but that only added to the charm. It was very Papyrus. His voice dipped in coyness, shyness brought on by affection, face flush and dark bathrobe open unintentionally. “AWW, C’MON. STOP IT, YOU!”

  You stood up and set about disrobing and watched as he attempted to withdraw stealthily to place the towel on the bed, unfolding it and smoothing it out briskly. He caught your gaze. “LOOK, THERE’S NO SEXY WAY TO PUT DOWN THE ‘PLEASE DON’T STAIN MY BEDSHEETS, I JUST CLEANED THEM’ TOWEL, SO I MIGHT AS WELL GET IT OUT OF THE WAY. UNLESS...” He coughed to prepare himself before dramatically tossing off his useless robe, making sure to pose extravagantly, one arm to the side and head turned in the closest approximation of a pout he could ever manage, peeping out one hand to adjust the fabric of the towel. “NEVERMIND, I TOTALLY DID IT.”

  “You don’t have to do this, you know. I appreciate it, but don’t think you have to do it to keep me happy.”

  Papyrus’ cheeks burned, and he clicked his fingers together bashfully. “WELL, MAYBE I LIKE ALL OF THIS STUFF!”

  “Aww, you’re such a sap,” you cooed.

  “NO I’M NOT! I’M A HARDCORE SKELETON THAT DOESN’T PLAY BY SOCIETY’S RULES! NOW LIE ON THE BED SO I CAN GIVE YOU A BACK RUB!”

  “Oh my God.”

 

* * *

 

  Things, naturally, progressed.

  You were bent over, face pressed into a pillow as his firm strokes to your muscles moved south, to the small of your back, close to your ass, before his digits returned to your shoulders, prodding and kneading, all illusions of it actually being a massage shattering as he pressed up against you from behind, hard and needy. He grabbed on gently, hooking his long body over yours, letting his tongue travel up the back of your neck to reach your jawline, sharp teeth gently scraping, raking. It did not hurt, but it reminded you they were there, sending a thrill through you. He held himself there, at your entrance, not moving, ignoring his own natural urge to thrust as he lapped at the exposed skin of your neck, occasionally plucking up the courage to nibble gently. This was nice, soft and slow, a lovely change of pace, but you were becoming impatient. Without warning you pushed back, slipping him inside you, and he yelped in surprise, fingers shuddering as he resisted the urge to clamp down. You were both still; you, pleasantly stretched and sighing, and him, eyes scrunched, letting the slow bloom of sensation work its way through his body, cock hot and twitching. He grunted animalistically in lust, bringing his head down to rest next to your ears, letting you hear his pants, hot puffs meeting your skin and settling into moisture. He let his conjured tongue hang from his open mouth, readying himself to drop the sexiest sentence on the planet.

  “ **WHO’S READY FOR A DICKING?!** ”

  You turned on your shoulder, laughing, propping yourself up on your hand. “That’s the least sexy thing anyone has ever said! Ever!”

  He looked a little confused, face tinged with genuine upset. “BUT IT CAN’T BE! IT HAS THE WORD ‘DICKING’ IN IT. ‘DICKING’! THAT’S THE SEXIEST WORD THERE IS.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “SANS.”

  Ah. There was your explanation. You were sure his sixth sense had triggered, Sans was probably doubled over at his outpost, clutching a ketchup bottle too tightly in his hysteria, having convinced Papyrus to use worst term for sex you had ever heard.

  Slowly, he rocked his hips, patient and tender, then withdrew with a gentle, relieved sigh, both of you feeling every twitch and pulse. You pushed back to encourage him to move faster, deeper, and to your surprise he actually squealed. He mimicked a coughing fit to try and hide his embarrassment before hurriedly resuming. He rolled his hips when he was fully inside you, gently stretching you even further, calm, collected and measured, very much keeping his cool as he moved against your walls, body shaking as you gripped him with your legs, insides straining wonderfully, tension already building. You heard him huff in satisfaction, next to your ear, planting soft kisses. It was, actually, without any kind of comical mishap, quite romantic.

  You could always go for a little more. You gently motioned for him to stop, craning your back to look him in the eye, the wooden panel of his racecar bed pressing patterns into your hand.

   “You can... Cut loose, if you want. Really go for it.”

  He paused, considering, and you heard his voice from behind, a little meek. “... ARE YOU SURE?”

  “Yeah.”

  “NO, I MEAN, ARE YOU REALLY SURE?”

  “... Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I’VE NEVER ACTUALLY ‘CUT LOOSE’ WITH SOMEONE, AND I’M QUITE STRONG. I DON’T WANT TO HURT YOU.”

  “I’ll be fine. If I want you to stop then I’ll say, trust me.”

  He thought for a moment, digesting the information, shifting impatiently inside you but not daring to resume. “YOU KNOW THAT I GET A LITTLE, UH...” He mumbled, before raising the pitch of his voice, having the audacity to be embarrassed. “... ‘PASSIONATE’. THAT MAY BE AN ISSUE.”

  You furrowed your brow, thinking over what he said. “You mean the fact you shriek like a banshee when you’re about to cum? Is that what we’re talking about?”

  The tinge of blush on his face dropped to a deep, deep red, and he kneaded at your shoulders. “OH SURE, JUST SPELL IT OUT. WHIP AWAY THE MYSTIQUE. BUT THE POINT IS, WHAT IF I DON’T HEAR YOU?”

  You squeezed him internally, just to rile him up a little, and extracted a high, creaking whine. “Then I’ll give you a solid whack with my arm to show you if I want to stop, see?” You punctuated the statement by reaching back to gently rap at his leg with your hand to demonstrate, to put him at ease.

  “OH. ALRIGHT,” he chirped, sunny and trusting as ever, confidence returning. “IF YOU INSIST!”

  And with that he clamped his hand around the back of your skull and forced your face to the bed, the angle giving his thrusts greater depth as he dragged his fingers wonderfully, painfully, across your side, and he began fucking like he only had minutes to live. Not making love. Fucking. It was hard, fast and wet, grunts and growls and pants as he took you from behind, forcing his teeth down upon the junction between your shoulder and neck, licking and sucking, totally giving into the urges he had been quelling since this started, waiting patiently for your go-ahead. You gasped at the suddenness, at the force of his thrusts, and grabbed on the sheets underneath in an effort to stop you from sliding forward, arousal spiking. He was rutting, the impact of his movements bruising your ass as he held you down, shaking your whole body. ‘Cutting loose’ appeared to be somewhat of an understatement. You expected the constant, high slur of words and coos he usually spouted in the middle of sex, but were instead surprised by the stream of steady, low grunts, in contrast to his normally nasally voice, so concentrated on maintaining his pace that it was all he could do, throaty bursts of noise. He was getting close, feeling his climax building, his thrusts becoming shakier as he began pleading to himself, “COME ON, COME ON, COME ON, COME ON--” It would rise, threaten to tip over, then just fall away as he adjusted the angle of entry, teasing him tortuously. He couldn’t quite make it, couldn’t quite finish, every slap of bone on flesh forcing an increasingly frustrated yell out of him, breathy and cracked.

  You clenched around him, gasping, close yourself, and that did it. He bit down on your neck, completely lost, completely out of it, and you felt him draw prickles of blood, drawing a long, low moan out of you, even if that did not quite tip you over the edge. He was shouting into your shoulder, the skin suppressing the words, drowning out his rapturous ‘THANK YOU’ and turning it into a slur as you felt him shudder, uneven jolts as he pumped you full of cum, twitching. He gasped, like he hadn’t been breathing for minutes, letting the wind whip out of his ribs, reality hitting him again, rose petals stuck in undignified clumps to his sweating bones. He slumped over you, propping his body weight up with his hand, the other absentmindedly playing with your hair. He was still in you, soft, but present.

  “... RIGHT. WOW, OK. THAT’S, WOWIE, THAT WAS SOMETHING! I’M GOING TO NEED A MINUTE...” He caught sight of the red mark on your neck, dotted with blood, thin trails that slowly worked their way downward. He gasped in horror, and you went to reassure him immediately, to encourage him.

  “OH GOD, DID I HURT YOU? I’M SORRY, I DIDN’T--”

  “It’s fine,” you panted, still high on arousal, “I liked it. A lot.”

  “GOOD, I WAS WORRIED. DID YOU, UM... DID YOU FINISH?”

  “No, but it’s fine, Papyrus. I can--”

  “COOL! WE CAN KEEP GOING, THEN!”

  “What?”

  “WHENEVER I STOP, IT’S TO GIVE YOU A BREAK! I’M NOT RESTRAINED BY SQUISHY, SQUISHY FLESH! MAGIC DOES HAVE ITS UPSIDES, YOU KNOW.”

  He resumed, the bedsprings wrenching as you whined under the glorious stimulation, and he gasped as his still-tender dick slipped heedlessly in, spurts of cum slicking his movements, moving quickly, decisively, now focused entirely on you. He brought his arm forward to tend to you, fingers working deftly, juddering under the weight of both of your bodies but still able to make you feel so warm, so full, that pressure building in your abdomen very close to uncoiling under the attention. You could feel him motion towards your neck again, but felt him hesitate.

  “Go for it.”

  He panted out little compliments, genuine, high and breathy as he resumed his ministrations, biting, sucking, his cock already tender from the first round. He was incoherent; drooling and panting and fucking. You came hard, head crammed into the pillow, rocking your body back to meet his thrusts, the soaring, blazing feeling rocketing from your groin to the rest of your body and back. You collapsed into the bed underneath, totally limp, pleasure finally going numb as Papyrus continued, unable to last under the constant stimulation.

  “OHHH MY GOD, OH MY, OH G-GOD, I LOVE YOU!”

  You mumbled a response in kind, genuine, sincere, but absolutely exhausted.

  He came for the second time, quietly, too overwhelmed to make any noise, whole body freezing in place for a moment as he processed the sensation. He slumped, backwards this time, pulling out of you and landing on the bed with a squeak of the mattress, leaving you gaping.

  You heard him wheeze, trying to get his breath back, speech finally bubbling out of him.

  “SO... ROUND THREE--?”

  “If I do that again I think I’ll die of dehydration.”

  “AH, ALRIGHT, TOO MUCH.”

  You both lay there, sticky, sore and satisfied.

  “... HUMAN?”

  “Yes?”

  “I AM BEGINNING TO REGRET THE ROSE PETALS.”

  “Why?”

  “BECAUSE, EVEN WITH THE TOWEL, THERE ARE ABOUT FIVE WEDGED IN MY TAILBONE AND THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NO WAY TO REMOVE THEM ROMANTICALLY.”

  You laughed and bopped him gently with your foot, already half asleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know I put a lot of humor into these, and I hope that’s ok, but I have a hard time writing Papyrus’ stuff as anything but silly, because he’s a pretty goofy character! I tried to make this a little more... Explicit? Visceral, I guess? I hope I hit the mark! ^-^


End file.
